


Un nouveau départ

by AmphigoricSymphony, DemonicSymphony



Series: Reason and Ashes [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frottage, Gift Giving, M/M, Starting Over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 22:31:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2445509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmphigoricSymphony/pseuds/AmphigoricSymphony, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonicSymphony/pseuds/DemonicSymphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are finally able to start building something for themselves. </p><p>The conclusion of the Reason and Ashes series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Un nouveau départ

**Author's Note:**

> Un nouveau départ - French - A fresh start
> 
> As always, thanks to our betas: Vilestrumpet for her beta and Britpicking and to beltainefaerie for her beta. Thanks to the Antidiogenes for the encouragement, Interrosand with help titling, to Amphi for always listening no matter what.
> 
> And to you, our readers. Thanks for sticking with us. It's been an adventure and we're honored you came with us.  
> -Symphony

On Christmas Eve, John picked up his scotch, leaning back to admire his work. On the table in front of him were a few small, wrapped boxes, all stacked atop the other and fixed with ribbon. Sherlock would likely roll his eyes while lecturing John over the waste of his time, and he was looking forward to the banter. John shifted the packages to Sherlock's chair before settling in and crossing his leg over his knee. The gas fire danced and the flat was decorated for the holidays. Mrs. Hudson had ensured everything smelled of cinnamon, of course, leaving John relaxed and more comfortable than he'd been in a very long time. 

Sherlock tapped his toes in his shoes as he held onto the handle over his head, leaning into the swaying of the car. When the Baker Street station came up, he darted off and up the stairs, out onto the street with his bag clutched in his hand. He let himself into 221 calling out a hello to Mrs. Hudson as he went.

"Cinnamon..." Sherlock murmured as he put the bag down. He hung his coat and scarf before scooping the bag into his arms and heading to his chair. "John, what _is_ this nonsense in my chair?"

John kept his smile hidden, though his chest swelled. He'd purchased fine resin from Italy and had it encased in an engraved onyx box, for starters. Below that gift lay several accessories for Sherlock's microscope, and in the bottom-most box lay a gift that had John's stomach twisted. He'd found a dressing gown, nearly identical to the original blue one Sherlock possessed when he first met him. Atop the dressing gown, however, lay a simple pin in a delicate spiral design, made from a scrap of metal from the explosion that had taken Baker Street away from them. It was small enough to be worn on a lapel without much notice. 

John made a rose for Mary. For Sherlock, a galaxy. He was so nervous about it that he'd made himself a drink to settle down. 

"I knew I should have had the morgue stamp those to pique your interest," he said warmly, sipping at his scotch again. 

"Gifts. Sentimental fool." Sherlock huffed. Though there was fondness in the tone as he dumped his bag in John's lap, sweeping the presents into his arms. He settled into his chair and nodded to the bag. "Go on then. Shall we open ours together?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched up in the corner. He'd spent months agonizing over what to get John. Long before he’d come back to Baker Street. He’d wanted it to be perfect… Truth be told it was as much for Sherlock’s peace of mind as it had been for John in some aspects. He hadn’t even known if he’d see John. Finally he settled on artwork. But, being Sherlock… the artwork came with a twist. 

John complained about the subject material several times as Sherlock grew it in the kitchen. He finally transported it to the hospital to make use of the imaging equipment there to take pictures of where he'd managed to coax bacteria into gorgeous patterns.

John opened the bag up, brows knit, and pulled the envelope out. He looked at Sherlock in question, sliding his finger under the flap. For a moment he just stared at the image, blinking dumbly, before looking up at him. "You...you _grew_ art for me?" He whispered, trying to wrap his mind around the effort it must have taken to get this done. 

"Sherlock," he cleared his throat, looking back to the image, "this… yeah this… this is good. This is good. Thank you."

"Twice." Sherlock teased as he started opening his gifts. "You bleached the first one by accident."

He was stunned into silence moments later though as he made his way through the boxes, his expression growing unreadable until he got to the pin. Slowly he stroked his thumb over the metal, tears stinging his eyes. "So we go 'round the Sun... If we went round the moon or round and round the garden like a teddy bear it wouldn't make any difference." He paused and looked up at John. "I once went on to say that all that mattered to me was the work... But I was wrong, John. All that matters to me is you. Without you, I work, but I'm not whole."

John stared at Sherlock in open surprise. The month he'd been back had been business as usual. Sherlock worked, John came on a few cases, did a bit of easy clinic work, and life was as close to normal as it ever was. Sherlock had been a bit less cutting in his banter, but otherwise it was nearly as though they were back to their first year together. 

This was a massive jump for Sherlock, one John had not expected. 

He cleared his throat and set his gift to the side. "I'm- glad you like it," he said quietly, "bit of rubble from Baker Street. It… yes… I- well," he cleared his throat again and took a sip from his glass, shifting uncomfortably. "Happy Christmas." 

Sherlock swore under his breath and held up a hand. "Forgive me. Please. I've never had a true friend, John. And certainly not one I hold so dear. It's- difficult for me to adequately and appropriately express myself on the best of occasions. Thank you." He smiled and gathered his presents. "I think I'll go and try on the dressing gown. Though... I must say, I don't miss the drafts of the old Baker Street. Happy Christmas, John." 

There was a grin and Sherlock was gone, moving off to his bedroom with his gifts. When he got to his room he closed his eyes and leaned back against the door, cursing himself again for his tactless outburst of words.

John stared at Sherlock's empty chair for several seconds before swearing under his breath and bringing his glass to his lips, polishing off the scotch. He set it aside, shifting to get out of his chair. Before he got to his feet he abruptly stopped, shaking his head and forcing himself to stay put. He'd not intended that exchange to go that way. 

Heart in his throat, he sat where he was, resting a finger against his lips and waiting.

Sherlock dressed in a pair of comfortable pyjama trousers and a tee before pulling on the dressing gown. It was comfortable and Sherlock sighed as the fabric whispered against his skin. When he moved back into the sitting room his voice was soft. "I'd very much like to give you a hug right now." He paused, voice hesitant. "If that's alright."

John did not hesitate to get to his feet, nearly weak in the knees that whatever Sherlock was backtracking from had not lingered and become a problem. 

He wrapped his arm around Sherlock and leaned in, resting his chin on Sherlock's shoulder and lightly rubbing Sherlock's back. "'Course it's alright," he whispered, lingering. "Idiot."

The sound Sherlock made was nearly a whimper as he hugged John tightly. "Thank you." He whispered. "It's very comfortable and warm... and I can swan about in it just as I do the Belstaff." Sherlock winked as he pulled back. "Have you eaten?"

John shook his head, glad that the dressing gown was so very similar to Sherlock's first. "No, I've not. I was waiting on you to get back. Mrs. Hudson's cooked a roast, but we can have whatever you are in the mood for." 

Sherlock released John and shook his head. "The roast is fine. In fact, that sounds wonderful..."

The meal was an easy affair, much to John's relief, both of them eating at their table before retiring again to their chairs. Snow was catching the street lights out of their main windows, leaving John in quiet consideration as he sipped at his drink. 

"We'd be chasing after Ellie now, likely trying to get her in a bath and down for sleep," John murmured, staring over at their little table tree. His eyes were unfocused for a moment before he took a deep breath and looked back to Sherlock. "How is Mycroft?"

The words caught Sherlock off guard, twisting something deep inside him and taking his breath. Her first Christmas. Almost a year old. Likely toddling dangerously around the tree...

It took him longer than it should have to answer and his voice was rougher than he wanted it. "He's spending the holidays with Harry, if you can believe it..." Sherlock cleared his throat. "It would seem even Mycroft has a friend to spend the holiday with."

John smiled then, a small upturn of the lips, nodding once to Sherlock. "That's good. That's… very good. He's had a difficult year as well." John looked back to the tree, struggling with the effort to keep his mind away from his lost family. For a fleeting moment he wondered if he should have waited to come back until the new year, but he'd been climbing the walls as it was, and doubted he'd have survived the winter if he'd spent it alone. 

He swallowed around the lump in his throat and breathed in deep and slow. What would he have gotten her? What of Mary? Realizing that he was close to tears, he shook himself from his thoughts. He’d made his peace with it. There would still be times it sneaked up on him like this… and he knew, deep down, he was allowed his moments.

John cleared his throat and looked back to Sherlock. "I've not heard you play in quite some time," he murmured, looking to Sherlock's violin. "Doesn't quite feel like Christmas yet." 

Glad for the interruption to his thoughts, Sherlock moved, gathering the violin to him and sweeping into a piece he would likely only play this once. His Christmas present to Mary and Elizabeth. It was beautiful, joyous, uplifting. What they needed to turn the tide of their thoughts. Sherlock smiled to John as he played and swayed with the music, eventually sliding into 'We Wish You a Merry Christmas'

John closed his eyes as Sherlock played, glad that he'd chosen music that was more uplifting than sad. He allowed himself another glass of scotch, setting his hand on his knee where he could not help but wish his daughter was sitting. He watched Sherlock for a short time, so struck by where they'd been in the time since Sherlock's return. 

It would never be the same, and it would never be normal. 

They would, however, carry on in some new way, something that worked and kept them moving even when it seemed impossible. John had those thoughts in his head as he dozed off in his chair, not having intended to drop into sleep, but lulled there by drink and soft music over a full belly. 

When John dozed off, Sherlock played for another hour, ignoring the slow slide of tears on his cheeks. Both sad and happy tears slipping down in tandem. The world around Baker Street carried on as it always had... and now, it seemed, the world inside it was catching up.

Sherlock tucked his violin onto its stand and covered John with a blanket before going to wash his face and collect his thoughts. Having John back was good. The work was good. They were healing. They'd both become their own persons again. Sherlock smiled to himself in the mirror and padded back out to the sitting room to read.

John woke to the sound of turning pages, looking over at Sherlock on the sofa. He took his time absorbing the sight. Perhaps what he was always meant to see, really. Not a little family, but Sherlock and their flat. 

His stomach dropped as he had the thought, disgusted with himself. That couldn't be right. It just was what it was. 

He stretched and get to his feet, going for the bottle and pouring himself another drink, not at all in the mood to be alone. He sat down on the end of the sofa, Sherlock's feet in hand, resting Sherlock's heels on his thighs as he stared unfocused at the fire. 

A smile crossed Sherlock's face and he rubbed John's leg with his foot, a reassuring touch. "Dinner? In a few days? I thought we could go to Angelo's. We haven't seen him in a while. I stopped by for lunch after a case, oh- a week ago? He asked after you." There was nothing in Sherlock's tone. It was friendly, open. Maybe a bit hopeful if it was studied carefully.

John nodded almost as soon as the words were out of Sherlock’s mouth. He wrapped a hand over Sherlock's ankle. "Yeah, of course." He smiled as he took another sip from his glass.

Sherlock flipped a page in his book. "Good, I've been craving some of his stuffed shells. No one else in London can do them correctly. Idiots. The lot of them." His smile softened, thoroughly enjoying the closeness.

John laughed to himself. "I had no idea you had such strong pasta opinions," he teased, resting deeper against the sofa. Sherlock had turned the gas logs down as low as they would go, leaving the soft lighting of the fairy lights ringing the tree.

"I have strong opinions on almost everything, John." Sherlock retorted. "Molly called while I was out, I forgot... wanted to wish us a Happy Christmas. She and Lestrade are very happily ensconced in France."

It occurred to John that Greg and Molly would likely settle down together. Perhaps start a family. He inhaled deeply, swallowing hard.

"I'm sure they are enjoying themselves," he hummed, tipping the scotch back and grimacing.

Sherlock watched John for a moment and then put his book down. "I shouldn't have mentioned it."

John set his glass aside and shook his head. "No… there… I've got to get used to that. Can't expect the world to stop. It's not… no, it's good to know that they are doing well. Molly deserves it, she does."

Rubbing his foot back and forth along John's leg, Sherlock watched him for a moment more before speaking. "Thank you, for coming home. I mean- I was back on my feet... but it's nice, not being alone."

John huffed something of an empty laugh. "It's me who should be thanking you," he returned, scrubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

Sherlock snorted. "We'll agree to thank each other and be glad we're home, then. Yes?"

John nodded, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. "It's very late," he murmured, squeezing Sherlock's ankle again.

There was a hum of agreement from Sherlock and he rested his head against the arm of the sofa. "Mm, it is. We should probably go to bed."

John hesitated for a few minutes, soaking in the calm moment before pulling in a deep breath and getting to his feet. He glanced back at Sherlock as though he were going to say something, changing his mind at the last moment.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled to John and sat up, ruffling his hair. "Goodnight, John." He pushed to his feet, heading to his bedroom, a small, sad smile on his lips once John couldn't see it.

\---

When John woke for the third time that night, sweating and trembling from dreams he was very sick of having, he gave up and moved out to the kitchen. He pulled down a glass, intent on a nightcap. His hands shook and he lost the glass, sending it crashing to the floor where it shattered spectacularly.

He swore and moved without thought, knocking on Sherlock’s door, leaning heavily on the wall.

The knock on the door came when Sherlock was halfway to it- the shattering glass having woken him. He opened the door and frowned, voice soft. "John... come here. Come here..." He opened his arms.

John hesitated for a moment, wrestling with himself before giving in, stepping forward and leaning into Sherlock and closing his eyes.

"Could I… stay with you?" He asked, voice muffled against Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock buried his face in John's hair, holding him close. "Whatever you need, John. Whatever you need. Come to bed. I heard the glass, are you hurt?" He held him for a moment more before he started to guide him to bed.

John shook his head. "No, just stupid," he murmured, going to Sherlock's bed and sitting on the edge. "Is… you're sure you don't mind?"

"Of course I don't mind." Sherlock answered as he crawled back in bed. "Hardly the first time we've shared a bed."

John nodded at that as he tried to relax into the bed, a hand over his eyes. "True enough," he whispered.

Sherlock reached out and touched John's hand in offer. "I'm here anytime you need me."

John grabbed hold of Sherlock's wrist and turned to his side, moving closer to him and trying to tuck against him.

Without hesitation, Sherlock wrapped up around John, pressing his face to John's hair and making sure they were both tucked into the blanket. "I've got you," he whispered.

John quieted, relaxing in Sherlock's arms, settling down against him. He breathed in deep and slow, resting against Sherlock's chest. "God, thank you."

Sherlock took in a shuddering breath. "Always. Always, John." He held him close, afraid the moment might shatter.

John did not move again, focusing on the sound of Sherlock's heart beating. He was back asleep in under ten minutes, a bit of Sherlock's shirt still twined in his fingers.

When John fell back asleep, Sherlock relaxed. He kissed John's head and closed his eyes again. With John tucked up in his arms, Sherlock was soon asleep himself, hand splayed against the small of John's back.

John slept for hours and woke before dawn, tightening his hold on Sherlock's shirt. He shifted closer, setting his leg over Sherlock's.

Sherlock murmured John's name in his sleep, clutching at him, his brow furrowing at the movement before he settled again. He let out a soft, happy sigh against John.

John's chest was abruptly far too small for his heart. He nuzzled back down into the warmth of Sherlock's arms, eyes watering with the foreign feel of safety. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, not at all interested in moving.

Oblivious to the rest of the world, Sherlock pressed his face to John's head, still mostly asleep, fingers rubbing back and forth on John's back.

John put his focus to Sherlock's fingers, allowing himself to find comfort in the touch. He inhaled slowly and kept his eyes closed.

Eventually he slipped back into sleep, content to stay as he was.

Sherlock came awake in slow increments. He was fully prepared for the night to have been a dream. When he found John still in his arms, he nuzzled down against his head with a quiet sigh.

John shifted as Sherlock moved, waking up swiftly. He pulled in a sharp breath and opened his eyes.

"I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

"Mm. No, you didn't." Sherlock smiled to John. "How are you feeling this morning? Can I get you anything?"

John tentatively slid his arm over Sherlock's back, pulling himself closer. There was a clear question for permission in his movements.

Sherlock nodded, relaxing into John's arms, something of a relieved sigh escaping him as John pulled closer. "Please," he whispered.

John pulled Sherlock to him, not entirely sure what Sherlock was asking. He draped his leg over Sherlock's, pressing his ear to Sherlock's chest, holding on to him very tight.

Sherlock curled his fingers in John's shirt and clung to him, pressing his face down to John's hair.

John remained where he was, interrupted only by the sound of Mrs. Hudson in their kitchen, fussing about with breakfast. He smiled against Sherlock's chest and squeezed him once. "We should get up, she'll be off if we don't eat."

A soft chuckle was Sherlock's first response as he squeezed John before beginning to untangle them. "Good morning. Did you rest well?" He made a face. "That is to say- after..."

John nodded sleepily against Sherlock's shoulder. "Yes, much improved, thanks," he whispered, taken aback by Sherlock’s sudden display of shyness. It wasn't as though they'd not been in bed together, in several forms. He stretched and sat himself up, scrubbing his hands over his face. 

A yawn escaped Sherlock as he pulled himself from the bed and shrugged into his dressing gown. He snuggled into it with a pleased sigh. "Thank you." He murmured. "This really is wonderful."

John looked over at Sherlock to see what he was talking about, letting his eyes slide over the gown and nodding. "I'm glad you like it," he answered as he got up, scrubbing a hand through his rumpled hair, suppressing the urge to just go right back to Sherlock, and climb onto his lap. Instead he opened their door and walked out into the kitchen, refusing to look away as Mrs. Hudson flustered for a moment at the sight of John emerging from a night spent in Sherlock's room. 

"Morning, Mrs. Hudson. Happy Christmas."

To her credit Mrs. Hudson's face lit up only a moment later. "Happy Christmas, John, Sherlock."

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock murmured, brushing his hand over the small of John's back as he moved to the kitchen to get a cup of tea. "How is your hip this morning after the cold?"

"Oh fine, fine. The new insulation does wonders to keep it at bay. Silver linings and all that." She said as she watched them. Not quite time to comment, then...

John failed to suppress a shiver that ran up his spine from where Sherlock touched him, sitting down before he made a fool of himself. He made a cuppa, eyes on his task and not the occupants of the room. It all smelled wonderful and John was again reminded what a good idea it had been to come home. 

As Mrs. Hudson made small talk about what news she had of Baker Street, Sherlock made himself and John both plates. He piled John’s with the perfect amount of food before settling in with his own. Sherlock smiled at his little gathered family. It wasn't Mary and a toddling baby and it never would be... but it was still his family.

John was not particularly listening though he felt a bit of guilt over it. He stared at his food, picking at little bits of it, thinking on the day. He was going to have to make a visit to see them, put some flowers down and wish them happy Christmas. 

With a sharp stab of guilt he realized he had no desire to do so. He wanted to stay here, with Sherlock, watching Christmas specials on the television and drinking warm whiskey. He cleared his throat roughly as he choked on a bit of egg, setting his fork down, and excusing himself from the table before heading to the bathroom. 

Torn, Sherlock finished his breakfast in a hurry before moving to his feet.

Mrs. Hudson patted his arm, telling him she'd wash up and be off to her sister's house for the evening.

Sherlock moved down the hall and knocked on the door with a gentle rap of his knuckles. "John?"

John was scrubbing the life out of his face, the water freezing as he bent over the sink, one hand on the tap. He killed the water and dragged a towel over, leaving a ring of damp hair framing his face. He cleared his throat again and opened the door, the front of his dressing gown a bit wet. 

"Sorry, sorry, I'm fine." 

There was a moment of hesitation, Sherlock's eyes narrowing before he reached out and wrapped John in his arms, pulling him close. "Whatever it is, you can tell me." His hand splayed on the small of John's back. "Don't- don't hide whatever it is, John. I'm here, no matter what."

John leaned in against Sherlock's chest, fighting the burn of tears. Sherlock was being far more kind than John deserved. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and allowed himself a moment just to settle there, breathing. 

"I have to visit them," he whispered at last, his tone steady if not a bit deeper than usual, "but I don't want to." 

Sherlock cleared his throat and approached the subject as delicately as he could. "John, the-" he paused, taking a slow breath. "Graves are for the living. If going there isn't-" Sherlock made a small, frustrated noise and hugged John to him. "I find I am unsure as to what to say."

For whatever reason, Sherlock's lack of response made things more difficult for John. He shook his head and stepped back, eyes to the ground, feeling rather foolish. "I'm sorry," he said again, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck, "I'm… going to get dressed. I'll be back in just a moment." 

He moved back towards his room, closing the door behind him before sitting down on the edge of his bed, struggling to keep himself grounded. 

With a thump, Sherlock let his head hit the door frame. He stood there for a minute before dashing up the stairs after John and throwing open the door, the decision to be himself, not who he thought John might need, made. 

"The graves are for the living... not the dead. Neither of them want you torturing yourself. If you don't want to go to the grave today, don't. It's Christmas. You're meant to be happy on Christmas. We can be sentimental and take flowers tomorrow just as well as we can today."

Sherlock moved across the room and went to his knees in front of John. "Come back downstairs with me. We'll make a pot of tea and watch some ridiculous movie. What's that one with all the singing? White Christmas?"

John blinked at Sherlock in open shock, dashing the backs of his hands across his face roughly, not at all having expected Sherlock to charge in on him like that. He cleared his throat several times, though his voice was still heavy with unshed tears as he replied. "I need to get it done. I've not gone since… it's been a long time. I need to go. When I get back we can watch telly and relax. I'm sorry I upset you on Christmas morning." 

At the last, his chin trembled slightly on him and he looked sharply away, coughing a bit to mask how upsetting it was to have upset Sherlock. "I won't be long," he added roughly, hoping the assurance would help. 

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm not upset. I'm not. I only want you happy. Content. I will get dressed and go with you. John, if you want to be alone. I understand... but I'm not upset with you and I only wish to spend Christmas in your company. I don't care where that is. If that's visiting the family we lost, then so be it."

John sat there, swallowing over and over again to keep his emotions in check. Perhaps Sherlock was right, and he needed to just stop with all of this. 

He sighed heavily and blinked up at the ceiling, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "I don't know how to do this," he confessed, his voice wavering despite his best efforts, "I want to hold my daughter, I don't want to put a teddy bear on her grave." A slow, heavy tear rolled down his cheek and he shook his head again, taking in a deep breath and dashing his hands over his face again. 

"White… White Christmas, yes. That's the one with all the singing. You hate that one." He added, looking back to Sherlock again. 

"I hate parts of it... most of it. But you always sing along and it makes you smile." Sherlock smiled up to him. "I know- I miss them every day and I never even met Ellie." He made a small huffing sound. "If it will make you happier or your heart lighter. We'll go to the grave... if it won't, let's go watch the movie and think about happier things, John."

John ran his hands over his face, torn between what he felt was right and what he wanted to do. "I- this is supposed to be a-" he cleared his throat again and sighed heavily.

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to come back here until I'd gotten past this. I should have waited. I thought… but then being home..." He swallowed and looked back to Sherlock. "Yeah, a bit of telly then. I suppose it won't make any difference if I go or not."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "John..." He reached up and touched his cheek. "I never meant to pressure you."

John inhaled deeply and then shook his head. "You haven’t done," he said quietly, "I'm sorry, this is not how I want to spend today. This isn't how I want you to spend your Christmas."

“John, this isn’t something you just get past. There will days where this happens. You’ve been doing well, adjusted, working. There are going to be days like this and that is okay.” Sherlock murmured.

Biting his lip John looked at him and nodded. “I know- there’s… so much guilt. Guilt over mourning in front of you when I’ve been okay, guilt over being okay…”

With a deep breath Sherlock stood. He was gentle as he pulled John's head to his stomach. "I'm okay, John. I am. There’s no reason to feel the guilt in either case. But I know it’s there. I’ll do my best to relieve it. Now, I'm going to go downstairs... Should I get dressed, or put on White Christmas?" He rubbed between John's shoulder blades as he stood there.

John leaned against Sherlock's stomach, breathing slow and deep. He did not speak for several minutes, and when he finally broke the silence, his voice was soft and heavy. 

"If you would just put on the telly. I need a few minutes up here, please."

Sherlock stroked through John's hair with a gentle hand before pulling away. "Okay. I'll be downstairs with a cuppa when you're ready." He retreated, closing the door with a soft click. Sherlock made a pot of tea and settled on one end of the sofa so John could sit as close or as far as he wanted.

Half an hour passed before John made his way back downstairs, face washed but still blotchy, eyes wet and red-rimmed. He settled down on the sofa next to Sherlock without a word, tipping his face to Sherlock's shoulder and holding still.

As he hit play on the DVD, Sherlock wrapped his hand around John's with a gentle squeeze.

When the familiar music began to play, the tension began to ebb away from his ribs. John turned slightly so that he could see the television, keeping his forehead rested against Sherlock's shoulder, not quite facing the television head-on yet. 

It was a full twenty minutes into the film when John lost a fight against quiet tears, slowly dampening the material of Sherlock's shirt, eyes locked to the screen. He said nothing of it, simply grieving as he clung to Sherlock's side. It would take a mechanical force to break his grip away. 

Sherlock shifted in increments so he could gather John better into his arms. Forty-five minutes into the movie, John's head was pillowed on his chest, Sherlock's arm around his waist, his hand stroking through John’s hair in repeated movements. They did not speak. Sherlock allowed John to grieve and supported him in it.

There was a point when John became so overwhelmed -now that he'd been granted permission to grieve as he was- that he could scarcely breathe. Though he remained quite silent, the sorrow was nearly engulfing. The quiet and familiar setting, Sherlock's arms, and a familiar holiday film were all it took to do him in. 

By the time the credits were rolling, John had mostly quieted. His head ached from so much sobbing, but he felt lighter than he'd done in months. As the last name scrolled, John was nearly asleep against Sherlock's chest, feeling properly at home at long last.

Keeping everything gentle, Sherlock continued to stroke John's hair. He turned the television over to Carols from Kings. He watched the gas flames flicker over the logs in the fireplace, impressed with the visual they gave, the ceramic 'logs' in the fireplace truly did give the impression they had a wood fire going.

Sherlock continued stroking John's hair, content to keep soothing him.

John ended up dozing against Sherlock off and on for the next hour, holding to the front of Sherlock's shirt, peeking a heavy eye open every now and again when he would wake for a few seconds. 

With a deep inhalation, John stirred as the music shifted. "Oh, I'm sorry," he murmured as he sat up, scratching the top of his mildly aching head.

A small smile crossed Sherlock's face. "No reason to be sorry. Warm fire, soft music, sleeping John... Not a lot more to ask for on Christmas for me."

A swelling warmth flooded through his chest and John smiled at Sherlock, eyes still heavy with sleep, his grin a bit unrefined. He leaned in and in the next moment, without thinking of what he was doing, John pulled Sherlock into a slow, lingering kiss, his lips warm and gentle against Sherlock's. 

Sherlock smiled into the kiss, returning it gently, without hesitation. He didn't freeze up or flounder around. His arm slid around John's waist, anchoring him gently against him as they kissed there on the sofa as though they'd done it every lazy morning they'd ever had.

John's heart skipped a beat at the feel of Sherlock's lips turning up in a smile against his own. When Sherlock's arm slid behind his back, slung low and comfortable, John leaned in with a bit more to it, gently brushing his teeth over Sherlock's lower lip before parting his lips ever so slightly. 

There was no resistance as Sherlock parted his lips, allowing John to guide the kiss where he would, though his heart was racing with the feel of the kiss. His thumb rubbed back and forth over John's lower back in tender strokes.

John pulled in a sharp, audible breath as Sherlock responded to him, a nearly painful shot of adrenaline stabbing across his gut. He shifted slowly, getting closer to Sherlock as he slid the tip of his tongue along Sherlock's lip, testing the waters there. 

Sherlock teased John's tongue with his own, just a brush before he pulled it back, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

John's temperament shifted as Sherlock made his move, hands reaching up and sinking in Sherlock's hair, chasing after Sherlock's teasing tongue with his own. He was shifted as close to Sherlock as was possible to get, his thigh pressed tight to Sherlock's, twisted to face him as fully as he could. 

When John shifted, Sherlock wrapped both arms around him more snugly. He leaned back on the sofa as they kissed, holding John close to him. A small moan caught in his throat as he curled his fingers in John's shirt.

Oh, and if John didn't want to get _lost_ in this. He'd worried over the nature of their relationship, what it would be like when he came home, if he wanted any sort of relationship of this kind with Sherlock at all. As he tested the sharpness of Sherlock's teeth with his tongue, he was quite sure he knew exactly what he wanted. 

John's fingers scratched lightly at the back of Sherlock's head as he kissed him with more urgency, wanting to be as close as he could. 

Sherlock's fingers kneaded John through his dressing gown. He nipped at John's tongue before dragging his teeth over John's bottom lip and tugging lightly. With all the strength he'd regained, Sherlock hauled John up so he was straddling Sherlock's lap and kissed him again, wrapping closer to him.

John huffed a laugh even as he gave a rough groan, nipping at Sherlock's lip in return and shifting so that he was seated on Sherlock's lap more comfortably. He tugged lightly at the back of Sherlock's head, deepening the kiss. Sherlock was much stronger than he'd been before, deceptively thin for his physical abilities. John could not help what the position was doing to him, rocking down against Sherlock for just a moment. 

There was an answering roll of Sherlock's hips as he kissed John more fervently. His hands wiggled under John's dressing gown and then his shirt before stilling, content, for the moment, in having found John's skin. Sherlock's thumbs stroked broad swipes across John's back as he kissed and nipped at John.

John broke the kiss when Sherlock's fingers brushed against his skin, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Sherlock, their breath mingling as he struggled to catch his. 

"Sherlock," he breathed as though about to speak, though he ultimately retreated, shaking his head. 

With closed eyes Sherlock drew his hands away, dragging in a shaking breath. He curled his fingers into his palms and nodded, clearing his throat. "I'm sorry," he whispered as he opened his eyes to look up at John.

Feeling Sherlock's hands slide away from him, John immediately reacted. He caught Sherlock's wrists, looking down as his heart raced. "I'm an idiot," he managed before swiftly leaning back in and capturing Sherlock's mouth in a desperate kiss, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck and holding on tight, afraid he'd made a terrible mistake. 

Sherlock wrapped his hands around John's hips, kissing back, nipping at his lips as he dragged John almost roughly against him. The kiss went on until he had to draw back gasping and admire the swollen way John's lips looked. He smiled up to him and brought their foreheads together again. "Alright?" He murmured softly.

John nodded, breathless, sweeping his thumbs across Sherlock's cheekbones. With unsteady hands, he began to pick open Sherlock's nightshirt, pressing little feathered kisses to the corners of Sherlock's mouth before grazing his teeth along Sherlock's jaw. "Stay?" he whispered in question, his voice shaking with his fingers.

"Always." Sherlock whispered back without hesitation as he angled his head for John, giving him better access. His fingers splayed over his hips, thumbs tenderly rubbing soft circles.

John tucked his face down against Sherlock's neck, shifting the feel of the moment. He held him in a tight embrace, going still for a few minutes, soaking in the ability to be like this with Sherlock again. "I'm sorry… a minute, please," he whispered against the skin of Sherlock's neck, shifting closer still. 

Sherlock wrapped John in his arms. One large hand cradled the back of his head while his other stroked his back. "I have you," he whispered. "I will always have you, John."

John lingered like that for a few minutes more, breathing and resting against Sherlock. Soon though, he was gently mouthing along the side of Sherlock's neck, sliding one hand across the inside of Sherlock's shirt across his bare chest. His insecurity faded away, once again squarely focused on Sherlock. 

As he tilted his head for John, Sherlock's hands slid down John's back, a low moan escaping him. His lips were parted as he sought, John's skin. His fingertips grazed over John's hips as he nipped the top of John's shoulder through his shirt.

John exhaled sharply, the sound audible as he pressed the side of his face against Sherlock's head, rocking back down on the man as he clung to him. "Christ," he murmured, heart rate quickening. 

Sherlock took in a few uneven breaths as he rolled his hips, slow, rhythmic motions. "John..." His voice was rough around John's name, need wrapping around it. "I- God, I want you." _Need you, don't reject me now... not now, please_. He swallowed hard and kissed along John's throat, desperate to taste him. His tongue darted out to lap at John's skin.

John gripped Sherlock's shoulders tight as he let his head drop back, eyes closed, angling his head so that Sherlock understood that he was given permission to carry on. John's knees shifted at Sherlock's side and he settled deeper on Sherlock's lap with a startled groan at the feel of the better position. 

A low groan sounded as Sherlock busied himself nipping and licking along John's throat. He dragged his teeth over the skin where he could feel John's pulse, hands running along his back under the shirt. Sherlock's nails raked along John's back, not enough to hurt, just enough to add to the bite he gave. He sucked up a mark before John's collar line, something akin to a growl in his throat as he did. This, this is what he'd craved for months... John in his arms even though he'd let him go.

John shivered in response, breathing faster, heart pounding behind his ribs. He took a few dizzy moments to process what was happening between them. Instead of a cold few hours graveside, mourning what he could never have again, he was warm and cared for, embraced by his best and most trusted mate, essentially spreading his arms wide and free falling with Sherlock into whatever this was. 

And whatever it was, it was _brilliant_. 

John moved as his heart leapt, tugging his shirt of and casting it aside. He turned so he could capture Sherlock's mouth with his own, kissing him breathless as his shaking fingers picked open the few remaining buttons. John leaned in, tipping his forehead against Sherlock's and hissing at the feel of skin-on-skin contact. 

"Fuck..." Sherlock swore as he ran his hands over John after being divested of his shirt. "Christ, _John_." He kissed John again, teeth dragging over his lower lip as his fingers dipped below the waistband of John's pyjamas. As Sherlock ground his hips up, he squeezed John's arse, kneading him. 

"God, yes." He murmured against John's lips, his arousal evident against John. This was gorgeous, this was what they'd been reaching for... too wrapped up in their grief before now to find it.

John's fingers slipped through Sherlock's curls, holding on to the ringlets just above his ears, leaning in and kissing him until he couldn't catch his own breath, rocking against Sherlock like they were in their teens. He let go with one hand, wrapping his arm across Sherlock's shoulders. John’s fingers pressed into Sherlock’s skin as he hung on, constantly rolling down against him. John gave himself over to it, clinging to Sherlock and refusing to even consider slowing down at this point. As far as John was concerned, this could go on for a lifetime. 

Sherlock let out a small, strangled noise. He was panting against John as he reached between them. It was awkward and he found himself giggling at the way they had to move for him to free them both from their pyjamas, but he didn't care. He kissed John again as he wrapped his hand around them both. There was a sharp gasp against John when they touched, skin on skin nearly too much for him. He groaned, rocking his hips up.

John broke the kiss, dropping his forehead to Sherlock's shoulder as he swore breathless, the humor gone in the feel of such intimate touch between them. Too long, it had been too bloody long. "Fuck, _fuck_ ," he panted, rolling his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder before turning his head to the side and biting lightly at Sherlock's neck, laving at the skin there as he rocked into Sherlock's hand, sparks of adrenaline cracking off in his gut like golden fireworks. 

A shudder ran through Sherlock as he sat there, a low, keening whimper following it. "Christ, John. _John_." He stroked them as they rocked together, chasing pleasure without thought. Sherlock panted as he mouthed along John's shoulder. "You, just you, Christ... _please_." His hand continued its movements almost automatically as he nipped John. 

There was some flustered, unintelligible response from John as Sherlock _begged_ , the circuits in his own head scrambling, failing to compute beyond his hand dropping down to lace with Sherlock's fingers around them, groaning into Sherlock's mouth.

He slowed the kiss as he concentrated on matching Sherlock's rhythm, the slight distraction enabling him to slow down and savor what was happening between them. It was fucking beautiful, really. They'd left a trail of hellfire in their wake, each burned and bruised, battered to the ground where they'd both eventually put down fresh roots and began to thrive once more. Perhaps they were a bit more bent at the trunks, their branches less impressive than before, but they'd made it out. They sat there, tangled together, moving in the oldest dance in history, instinctively reacting to the other. Sherlock was so familiar, it was easy to forget where John stopped, and Sherlock began, cliche as John had always found the phrase. 

He found his fingers tangling in the curls at the base of Sherlock's neck, kissing him passionately while they rocked up into their joined hands, the entire rest of the world faded into nothing around them.

The slowing down helped refocus Sherlock and he kissed John as they moved. His hand pressed at the small of John's back, holding them together as they rocked. Sherlock moaned against John, a shudder running through him. He broke away from the kiss with a gasp, trying to speak, to warn John he was close. His words were unintelligible, his body tensing. Sherlock's nails dug into John's back as his hips fell out of rhythm, starting to stutter.

John groaned at the sight of Sherlock losing his rhythm. He drew back enough to watch, keeping hold of the back of Sherlock's neck as he carried on the rhythm for them, working Sherlock without pause, able to keep the pace for the both of them. His own pupils blown wide, John leaned in and breathed against Sherlock's lips. "I love you," nipping at him before kissing Sherlock once again. 

It was perfect, John had him. John was right here... John loved him, truly loved him. Sherlock gave a low groan into the kiss, body going tense as he thrust up hard. He shuddered through the orgasm, clinging to John through it as tears stung his eyes. He kissed John breathlessly, gasping against it.

Sherlock’s reaction was his undoing. John let his head fall back as the wave of release crashed over him, moving in stuttered chaos. It was perfection, calming him to a level he’d not reached in years. With a gentle sigh, John leaned forward, making a mess of them both as their chests pressed together and he rocked through the aftershocks. 

Sherlock clung to John as he panted, head resting on his shoulder. His fingers made slow circles on John's back. He found he didn't care about the mess, only about having John there against him. "I love you." He murmured as he kissed along John's shoulder. "I love you." He repeated as he held close.

John settled against Sherlock, breathing slow and even as he came down, chin resting against Sherlock's shoulder. The fire at his back kept the chill away, and the low lighting allowed him to remain in a bit of a daze. "I love you," he whispered in return, keeping close to him. 

A giddy smile Sherlock would have hidden from anyone else stayed on his face as he looked at John before nuzzling his neck. Things would never be perfect, life never was, there would still be pain… They would both still have bad days. But this- they could move forward with their lives. A small, happy laugh bubbled up and Sherlock kissed John again. 

"Happy Christmas, John."

**Author's Note:**

> That's it... that's all she (we) wrote.
> 
>  _Herre_ which covers Mycroft's story during all of this is still in the works and part of the _Word Play_ series. Thank you again for coming with us on this ride.


End file.
